


On the Flying Trapeze

by Molly_Hats



Series: All the Living are Dead, and the Dead are All Living [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Batfam Week 2018, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-05-02 08:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14540394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molly_Hats/pseuds/Molly_Hats
Summary: Homicide Detective Bruce Wayne witnesses the deaths of the Flying Graysons: John, Mary, and their 12-year-old son Dick.  He and his partner, Clark Kent, are on the case.  Dick remains behind as a ghost, and Bruce finds him more than just an unusable witness, growing to see him as a little brother.  Will Bruce be able to move on when Dick does?Day Four:AU





	1. Chapter 1

Alfred had insisted on it, damn him. “‘You need a break,” he said. “If you won’t take a vacation, at least visit the circus for a night. Take a date.”

Bruce had caved to one request, but went alone. “I’m on deck for the next homicide,” he explained. “Next person who dies, it’s my case.”

Bruce watched the Flying Graysons flip and soar through the air, barely paying attention. Around him, the audience oohed and ahhed and commented on it, but he was too preoccupied. 

Somehow, he sensed the fall before it happened. Perhaps he caught something wrong in the performers faces, the angle of their bodies. Maybe it was something to do with the ghosts. At any rate, he snapped to strict attention right as the cord of the trapeze snapped.

Bruce leapt up as the crowd screamed. He ran toward the stage, popcorn flying out of his lap, but he was too late and completely useless, anyway. The Flying Graysons hit the ground seemingly silently, drowned out by the horrified gasps of the crowd. 

Bruce, however, saw more than most of them. 

The boy stood up, leaving his body behind. He looked around in confusion, glancing up at the broken rope, around at the crowd, and then down at his parents. Bruce saw the realization dawn on him as the boy dropped to his knees in horror.

Bruce’s phone buzzed, startling him. He’d turned off notifications for everything but work, so this meant he’d caught a homicide. He was at bat, after all. He pulled it out and opened the newest text from Sergeant Grant.

“You’re up, kid. Triple homicide, scene still getting secured, Haly’s Circus.”

Bruce texted back, “I’m on site now,” and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He made his way down to the ring, weaving his way through the chaos of spectators scrambling to get away or get a better view. 

He flashed his badge at the ringmaster. “Detective Bruce Wayne, homicide,” he said. The ringmaster stepped out of the way, and Bruce made his way over to the bodies.

Tentatively, he placed his hand beside the boy’s glowing hand. “What’s your name?” He barely pulled himself back from adding “son.”

“D--Dick,” the boy stuttered, looking over at Bruce. “Am I...Am I dead?”

Bruce frowned in contemplation, then nodded slowly. “Looks that way.”

“How can you see me?” Dick asked, pale eyes wide. “How’m I still here?”

“My parents died when I was eight,” Bruce confided. “Ever since then, I’ve seen ghosts.”

“That’s what I am? A ghost? Where’re my folks?” Dick asked on the verge of panic.

Bruce wondered if ghosts could get panic attacks. He wasn’t eager to find out. “They’ve moved on, son.”

“Don’t call me son! My parents are… my parents…!” Dick broke down crying, which honestly lent credence to the ghostly panic attacks theory. 

_Focus, Bruce. None of that homicide humor here, there’s a survivor of sorts who doesn’t appreciate it._ “Sorry. Dick, I promise you, I’ll help you get justice so you can join them, okay? I promise.”

Dick looked up at him. 

“You willing to help me out?” Bruce offered.

Dick nodded, hesitantly, then emphatically, his chin pumping to his chest and back up hard and fast. 

“Good.”

“Ahem.”

Bruce glanced up behind him. “Kent.”

Clark Kent stared down at the crime scene, eyes widening at the sight of Dick. “My land…How old was he?” 

Bruce subtly glanced at Dick, who got the hint. “Twelve.”

“Twelve,” Bruce repeated for Clark’s benefit.

Clark tore his eyes from the child’s body. “I’ll interrogate the ringmaster.”

Bruce nodded. “Have a notebook?”

Clark passed one over, a pen looped through the wire spine. “You have the bodies?”

Bruce nodded again, flipping open the notebook, pulling out the pen, and beginning to write.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for Batfam Week Day 4: AU

Bruce had never been in prolonged contact with a ghost. He wasn’t sure whether Dick would be able to adapt or move with his car. Those he had seen had walked instead of floated on most occasions, but he wasn’t sure of their sense of where the ground was.

Still, when he held open the passenger door, Dick hopped in as easily as if he were flesh and blood still. So that was that.

Dick perched on the passenger seat of the van, looking around curiously at the old coffee cups and scribbled notes that filled the cup holders and spilled over onto the passenger seats.

“Sorry,” Bruce said stiffly. “I can move that.”

Dick stood up (his feet rested on the floor of the car, further proof ghosts had an innate sense of where objects were and a desire to not occupy the same space) as Bruce quickly scooped up the rubbish on Dick’s seat and dumped it in the back. He patted the seat when he finished, and Dick sat down.

“Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce blinked. Had he told the kid his name? He racked his brain. He’d been so caught off guard by this whole business, he neglected to mention it. The kid must’ve overheard it when he told the ringmaster.

“Yes, Dick?”

“Why aren’t my parents here?”

Bruce’s heart sank. His left hand clenched on the steering wheel as he shifted the car into drive. He glanced over at Dick.

The boy stared at his lap, his ghostly hair falling into his face.

Bruce cleared his throat. “I don’t know.”

Dick looked up at him, his face looking like Bruce imagined Mount Rushmore would in a couple hundred years or so. His forehead creased and cracked, and the line of his lips wavered. “You don’t?”

Bruce bit his cheek. He needs comfort. You need to seem in control. You’re an adult, you’re the one handling this case. You need to seem in control.

But he couldn’t help thinking back to the long weeks after that night years ago, the days of wandering the halls of the Manor praying it was haunted, the encounters with ancestors he forced himself to try to care about, all in the vain hope of finding his parents again.

“Some people move on, Dick. We don’t know why. We’ve theorized it has to do with how long they’ve lived, or how they died.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Dick asked.

Damn it. Why couldn’t he be a dumb kid? “...Just me.”

“That’s not many people.”

Bruce stuck out his jaw to hear it crack. “Well, it’s a bit difficult to approach people about ghost theory.”

Dick made a valiant effort to laugh. “I guess so.”

They pulled up to the Homicide HQ: the Birdhouse, so because of the great number of pigeons and other birds that had claimed it as their home. It irritated the many smokers who were forced by their habit to venture out into the areas where the birds did their business.

(This was why Bruce chose alcohol, and only alcohol, as his vice.)

Bruce parked, stepped out, and opened the side door under the guise of removing a couple of coffee cups, giving Dick time to step out. He knew ghosts could pass through things, but he didn’t want to press that on Dick in full view of the Birdhouse. The boy stared up at the tall, gray stone structure, his eyes brushing across the gargoyles that stood lookout near the top.

Bruce supposed that it could be impressive if one wasn’t accustomed to such sights, and if one overlooked the thin coat of bird poop that decorated the majority of the structure.

“Would you like to come in?” Bruce asked.

Dick nodded wordlessly.

“Come on. Clark’s inside. We won’t be able to talk as easily, because there are more people there.”

Dick nodded again.

“You can probably wander around, if you want,” Bruce added thoughtfully. “There’s a robin’s nest up in one of the gargoyles. Lisa says that’s rare this deep in the city.”

Dick perked up at that. “I’d like to see that.”

Bruce smiled softly. He swung the door open. “Go for it, then.”

“What’re you smiling about, Wayne?” Jordan’s voice called out.

Bruce’s mouth tightened back into a thin line as Dick shot off across the room. “None of your business, Jordan.”

Hal Jordan, a recent promotion to Homicide from Precinct 28, grinned. “Hey, everybody!” He yelled. “Bruce Wayne just smiled!”

“Aww, shut up, Hal.” Lisa Drake called back without looking up from her paperwork. She did, however, glance up when Bruce walked by her to approach his own desk. Peering through her black bangs, she said, “we heard you caught the redball express with the Grayson case.”

Bruce nodded.

“Good luck. You need anything, we’re all behind you.”

“Thank you.”

Lisa shrugged and returned to her paperwork.

Bruce watched the door, waiting for Clark to walk in.

Can Dick get through doors? came the thought, unbidden. He brushed it away in a moment. He’s a smart kid. He’ll figure it out. And there’s an elevator.

Clark stepped in, looking exhausted. His eyes roamed over the room, finally settling on Bruce.

Bruce stood up, held up his notebook, and nodded toward the evidence room.

Clark nodded back, the message clear.

Not here.

**Author's Note:**

> The "at bat" system for which detectives are assigned to certain homicides is atypical. It's employed by the Prince George's County Homicide Squad, as depicted in the excellent book "A Good Month for Murder: The Inside Story of a Homicide Squad" by Del Quentin Wilber. I imagined that Gotham, with its high homicide rate particularly during the graveyard shift, might adopt this system instead of the more common whoever's-shift-it-falls-on system.


End file.
